


Lost Dog

by Not_You



Series: Animal Ears [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dogboys & Doggirls, Dogs, Domestic Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Kemonomimi, M/M, Misunderstandings, Original Character(s), Past Child Abuse, Perceived abuse, Teen Pregnancy, Xenophilia, francis dolarhyde is fucking tragic, grandmother dolarhyde can go drink a knife, meaningful hand holding, poor francis, sad dogs are the saddest thing, scissors are not for terror, seriously francis i know she was your grandma but trust me this is the best mistake you ever made, what will does at work all day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-09-14 12:31:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 20,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9181963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Not_You/pseuds/Not_You
Summary: Francis Dolarhyde is very sure that he is a Bad Dog.  Will and Hannibal disagree.





	1. A Hand To Hold

Will hates these cases. There is almost nothing sadder than a sad dogperson, so even when one gets brought in for allegedly killing his own grandmother, Will can't help but feel sorry for him. He's a huge dog, a giant creature of rippling muscle for all his attempts to cringe down as small as possible. His golden ears are flattened to his dark hair, and his thin tail is curled up tight between his legs, actually touching his belly and curling back in the crease of his thigh. He's legally registered as a pet, but fully dressed in ironed slacks and a collared shirt. His actual collar is carefully settled in the space a necktie would occupy, and the effect is to make him look strangled and confined. He stands in the middle of the interview room looking like he's about to piss himself, and Will sighs.

"Hey, buddy," Will says softly, stepping up to the plexiglass. It's important not to babytalk them, but he makes sure to sound friendly. "I know it's been a hard day." The dogman whimpers piteously, the tip of his curled tail trying to whip back and forth in a tiny, desperate wag.

Unlike a cold assessment, Will has access to Francis Dolarhyde's file, and it is a heartbreaking thing. Born to a human mother who immediately abandoned him, he had tested high on the Glasgow Animal Instinct Scale, but his Kemonimimi Intelligence scores are all over the place. Or at least, they would seem that way if Will knew less about the world and what utter shit people are. What Will sees in the file is a pattern that's almost beautiful in its clarity and strength. Without even seeing that the assessment was done in Missouri, he knows it was and for its kemonomimi population, Missouri is a shithole. Will has never been there himself and hesitates to judge further, but Missouri has had some of the worst kemonomimi laws and continues to do its level best from keeping the Bureau from doing its job, such as still allowing shady private assessments by facilities with almost no real oversight. 

The version of the KI test that Francis Dolarhyde took was obvious crap even twenty years ago. These days it's like some kind of museum piece on how not to assess kemonomimi. The terrified dogman in front of Will was assessed once as a child, slapped with pet status almost entirely because he can't speak, and then... nothing. The file is way too thin, and Will makes sure to pack his rage at that into the back of his mind, since dogpeople are almost like real dogs when it comes to picking up on that kind of thing.

"Your file says you can't talk," Will says, in the same, calm, friendly voice, "but it doesn't tell me a whole lot else." Francis whines, tail trying to wag again. A wet spot appears on the front of his slacks and he cries like a puppy, somehow managing to cringe even more without dropping to the floor. "Hey, hey," Will soothes, wishing like hell that they'd let him take his life into his own hands and go in to give this dog a hug. "Submissive urination is okay, it just means you're nervous, and I already know that. Just sit down in the chair and I'll get your assessment started. It won't hurt," he adds, even though it's mostly only the lab survivors who expect that it will. Francis sits down, his big eyes full of tears, and his tail curls down through the space between the back and the seat, curling up under it in an instinctual bid to stay where it was when he was standing.

Will smiles at him. "There," he says, and sits down in his own chair, pulling it close to the glass, "now, I'm going to ask you some questions. Just nod for yes," he says, demonstrating even though most pets have it figured out, "and shake your head for no," he concludes, showing Francis this one as well. Francis nods.

"Do you know why you're here, Francis?" Will asks, and Francis nods again, scrubbing at his eyes with the back of one hand. "Show me," Will says, and passes him the violent crime picture cards. The illustrations are simple, but they cover a lot of situations. Francis seems very frightened of the sexual ones, but he puts them to one edge of the little shelf under the slot, along with all of the others but one. He chooses the card that shows a person being pushed down a flight of stairs, and pushes it out through the slot for Will to see. This is consistent with the police report of Marie Dolarhyde being found at the bottom of one of her sweeping oak staircases with a broken neck. A neighbor had called it in after hearing Francis's heartbroken howling for 'a lot longer than usual.' Apparently there's a cook, but she doesn't come in on Tuesdays.

"Did you do this on purpose, Francis?" Will asks gently, and Francis shakes his head desperately and then starts speaking. It's malformed and horribly canine, but it's speech. Real English words, and they are 'bad dog' repeated over and over as Francis rocks back and forth.

"No," Will says, in the same tone of command he uses to get his own dogs to stop panicking in the face of thunder, hygiene, or veterinary medicine. It works on Francis, but not the way he wants it to, making him go completely still and just as fearful, tears still pouring down his face. 

Will sighs, weighs his options, and then violates Bureau policy, putting his hand through the slot. Francis flinches and then calms as the hand remains stationary. "You're a good boy, Francis," Will tells him, and after a long time, one of those huge hands engulfs his own. Francis could probably crush every bone in Will's hand. His size had sort of stopped registering in the face of his terrible misery, but now Will can really feel it. Francis is very gentle, holding Will's hand the way his dogs will sometimes hold it in their teeth, as able to harm him as they are unwilling to. Since Will might as well hang for a sheep as a lamb, he holds Francis's hand for a long time, and talks softly to him about anything but the present situation until he's calmer. After that, it's back to the picture cards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, Missouri. sometimes you are a shithole for real, but this time I just needed a place where Grandmother Dolarhyde could be her horrible self because of lax enforcement, and Wikipedia says Francis's childhood happens in Missouri.


	2. Bad Dog

In some ways, cats are easier than dogs. Cats will almost always happily send their abusers down the river at the first opportunity, where dogs are agonizing to listen to. Francis is no exception. He's very certain that he's a Bad Dog and that Grandmother was right about him all along and was doing her best and if she scared him with the scissors for peeing it was for his own good. When Will figures out what he even means by that it makes him feel sick. This woman threatened to cut a five-year-old dogboy's dick off for wetting the bed, and given how bad the average dog is at lying, Will doesn't doubt it for a second. She was one of the old guard, ashamed of her grandson's animal nature and punishing him for every tiny manifestation of it. 

After getting a good outline of how this woman conducted herself toward her grandson, Will is about to ask about the cook when he gets a call on the room's landline. Francis looks a little terrified at the thought of anyone calling Will for any reason, but he sits quietly and lets Will pick up. It's Jack, and he sounds more ruffled than Will has heard him in a long time.

"Will, how close are you to done with Dolarhyde?" he asks, with the tone of a man with his back to the wall.

"We're getting there," Will says, giving Francis a reassuring smile. "What's going on?"

"The cook is here, and she is very concerned." Will can picture him eyeballing the woman across his desk, and sighs.

"I'm glad that someone is," Will says. "We're getting close to done here, but we might need another hour or so." Jack is far from thrilled with this, but knows not to argue on this one. Will hangs up, and turns to Francis again, questioning him about the cook. 

The cook, according to Francis, never hit him even when he was bad, and she loosened his collar when it choked him and gave him treats even when Grandmother wasn't feeding him for being bad. He wants to see her again, and the knowledge that he'll be allowed to once he tells Will exactly what happened to his grandmother helps him to be brave. It's still hard, and Will has no trouble finding a lot of patience for Francis as he recounts what is probably the worst day of his miserable life so far. 

He had been bad again, climbing the fence to go for a walk because he hadn't been allowed out in days, and upon getting back, Mrs. Dolarhyde had called him upstairs. For leaving the yard without permission she had beaten him with a switch, as usual. He's shy about opening his shirt to show Will the marks, but he does it at last and it's all Will can do to stay neutral and not suck his teeth in sympathetic pain. The marks are narrow and very dark, the vicious, near-black of almost bone-deep bruising. There are over a dozen of them, and Will photographs all of them for Francis's file. 

Little as Francis likes this process, he takes forever to get his shirt back on, because once he does, he'll have to talk about the next part. Well, answer yes or no questions about the next part while piecing together what he can with picture cards. Flinching under the blows he had accidentally broken a vase. This had been enough for Mrs. Dolarhyde to once again threaten him with the scissors. In his desperate flight, he had knocked her down the stairs, and now he starts to howl and cry again. Will sighs, and reaches through the slot again, taking his hand and making him let out a pitiful sob of relief.

It takes the entire hour that Will asked for and Francis is still sniffling and cringing, but he nods vigorously when asked if he would like to see the cook, whose name is apparently Queen Mother Bailey. It will have to be a supervised visit, but since Will has designated Francis as a very low current risk for violence, they can do it in a regular conference room, and no one stops Queen Mother from going right up to Francis and hugging him tightly.

"It's gonna be okay, little possum," she tells him when she pulls away enough to look into his eyes, her hand very dark on the side of Francis's pale face. She's shorter than Francis because most people are, but she's a big woman, fat layered over what Will can tell is formidable muscle. She makes him think of a well-padded lioness, and he's not surprised at all by her utter lack of fear in the face of Francis's own size and power. "You know Queen Mother don't lie to you. It's gonna be okay."

Francis nods, and clings to her until she pulls away again to fuss over his pants and their nearly dry, half-dollar sized spot. "You left my boy wet?" she says to Will, glaring at him even as she keeps holding Francis.

"He was so upset that I didn't want to make it worse, Ms. Bailey," Will tells her.

"Mrs., I'm a married woman," she says with great dignity, and Will smiles.

"Mrs. Bailey, I didn't want to upset him further. If there had been enough to really make him uncomfortable, I would have done something about it. Do you have another pair on hand?"

She nods. "I always keep a set of things for Possum," she says, and Will can feel it from her, a wave of desperate, hopeless love.

"You called it in in Missouri, didn't you?" Will asks her, and she nods, hugging Francis tightly again. His ears and tail still aren't exactly relaxed, but they're much more comfortable-looking than they have been.

"Only reason I came out here with Mrs. Dolarhyde, God rest her soul."

Of course Francis starts crying again, but Queen Mother comforts him, petting his ears and telling him that he's a good boy, that she knows he didn't mean it, that nobody could think he meant it, not a sweet little possum like him. Will feels like he shouldn't be here, but of course he has to stay, and of course there's a stun gun on hand, but he knows he doesn't need to use it. On Francis. He might have to use it on Queen Mother in self-defense when he tells her that she can't take Francis home tonight, though.


	3. Possum

There will be a hearing for Francis, but Queen Mother Bailey does not give a shit about the kind staff and how Francis would never be left alone, she is not having him in this place overnight. She's so persistent that Jack would be willing to rubber stamp her application, but Queen Mother is an honest woman, and she must admit that there are children in the home. The idea that her precious Possum would hurt any one of the little angels is about enough to make her head explode, but her husband puts his arm around her and says something quietly. He seems to be the strong and silent type in general, but his inaudible words calm Queen Mother.

"It's getting late," she says to Will, "and we'll have to get back to the kids sometime, but we could probably give you hell for another solid four hours. How about this instead of that: can you watch him?"

Will blinks. "Me?"

"I can tell you care about my boy, and you got him trusting you enough to wait on us without crying after the day he's had. You got any kids?"

Will shakes his head. "No, ma'am. Seven real dogs, a legal human, and a semi-feral catwoman, though."

"If you got room, he can get along with them," Queen Mother says. "Possum never wants any trouble, Agent Graham, and you know it."

Will does know it, and by now Jack is willing to rubber stamp his own face to get this woman out of here, so all that's left for Will to do is to step into an empty room to give Hannibal a call. As usual, he answers with a happy, feline trill, and Will blushes for his own illusions of not being into kemonomimi.

"Hey," Will says softly. Hannibal has developed almost as many adoring and silly nicknames as a real cat, but Will feels weird using any of them now. "Uh, I called to ask you something."

"Mrow?"

"Dammit, Hannibal, don't be cute," Will says, amused against his will. "There's a dog that needs looking after. We could keep him here overnight, but the closest thing he has to a guardian doesn't want that and honestly, neither do I."

"Why is he there?"

Will sighs. "He's a pet, and he hasn't been looked after properly."

"Then he needs you," Hannibal says. "I look forward to meeting him and will let Mischa know." For the moment Mischa is based in the barn, so if she feels the need to retreat, it should be no problem. 

Will thanks Hannibal, tells him that he loves him (even if it does come out a bit quiet and embarrassed,) and hangs up, returning to the other room to let Queen Mother know that her little possum can stay with him. He's not expecting the hug, but he goes with it. Queen Mother is even stronger than she looks, warm and faintly talcum-scented. It's awkward, but far from the worst thing to happen to Will this week. Once he can extricate himself, they go to collect Francis. 

Francis can't help but cry a little more because he wants to go home with Queen Mother, but she tells him that he doesn't have to stay here, that Agent Graham will take care of him. Will can't help but be touched to see how much that calms Francis down. As Queen Mother says her farewells, her husband assures the sitter over the phone that yes, they will be back soon and that she'll be paid for the extra hour.

"Time and a half," he says before he hangs up.

Through with his phone call, Mr. Bailey goes over to Francis to take both of his hands and tell him to be good. Francis nods a little desperately, and whines and wags as Mr. Bailey gently scratches him behind the ears. Francis wags weakly, and then watches both of the Baileys walk away, his lip trembling and big tears standing in his eyes.

"Hey," Will says softly, taking one of those giant hands, "come and sit with me. I just have to fill out a form and then we can go to my house." 

He's careful not to say 'home,' when it's such a loaded word. Francis nods, and obediently sits on the floor next to Will's chair as he fills out the expedited foster form. Will is about to say something about Francis being free to use the furniture, when he rests his head on Will's knee and Will understands. He strokes Francis's hair, feeling helplessly fond of him.

As soon as the form is returned and copied and properly filed, Will can take Francis out to the car. He seems a bit afraid of it, but gets into the passenger seat and buckles the belt. Will smiles and gives him a soft word of reassurance and praise, getting into his own seat and pulling out of the parking lot. Francis watches the traffic with wide eyes, and shakes his head when Will asks him if he has had many car rides. Will has a feeling that Francis has been hidden from the world like something shameful, and he does his best not to think about it, knowing the poor guy will pick up on his anger, just like a real dog. Instead he shows Francis how the radio works at a stoplight. Francis scans around for a while before at last hitting 'Inna Gadda Da Vida' of all fucking things, which he seems to absolutely love, howling along after a sidelong glance at Will somehow lets him know that it's okay to do so.

Will isn't sure what he's going to do with a hard rock loving dogman and opera queen of a catman under the same roof, but the experiment will definitely be an interesting one. Francis is calmer by the time they pull up to the house, but gentle handling and his preferred music can only do so much against the kind of day he's had. When he gets out of the car his tail is tightly curled again, and his ears are completely flat.

"It's okay," Will croons, and the door opens, allowing the dogs to burst forth, delighted to see Will and to meet his new friend. Introducing and petting the dogs works to get Francis into the house, and when the door shuts behind him his look of suddenly renewed anxiety is almost funny. Hannibal is standing in the living room, favoring both of them with a welcoming smile, his grey tabby tail gently twitching with curiosity.


	4. Cats And Dogs

Will has helped people introduce their dogs to new cats before, and it's pretty funny how similar the process is with kemonomimi. There's no need to keep Francis on a leash to watch his prey drive, but he sticks close to Will anyway, blushing and shrinking in a little when Hannibal prowls forward to smell him.

"It's okay," Will croons, feeling like an idiot for talking this way to a person. Still, it seems to help, and Francis looks sidelong at Hannibal, who smiles at him.

"Welcome to our home," he says softly, and gently pats Francis on the face. Francis whines, flinches, realizes it's okay, and then leans into the touch with a wagging tail. Hannibal's smile widens, and he keeps petting Francis. "Good boy," he says. "Are you hungry?" Francis nods hesitantly, and Hannibal leads him to the kitchen, where the little table is already set and the pans on the stove are perfuming the whole house. However Francis was treated at home, he knows to sit nicely in his chair and put his napkin on his lap, and he looks at the utensils with real complacency. He waits for everyone to be served and then proves that he knows exactly how to use a fork as he puts away his first helping and then folds his hands, tail curling under his chair again as he gazes at the serving dishes with longing before forcing himself to look away.

"You can have seconds if you want them," Will says. "And more, if you're still hungry."

"We have plenty," Hannibal adds, and starts loading Francis's plate again without waiting for him to find the courage to nod, which takes a long moment. It really is a joy to watch him, and looking again at the breadth of his shoulders, Will has to assume that if Mrs. Dolarhyde was restricting access to food while Francis was growing, Queen Mother wasn't. Francis demolishes this plateful and does go for thirds. Hannibal is delighted to feed someone so hungry, and Will is just glad to see Francis taken care of.

Being a dogman who has had an extremely stressful day and now a huge meal, it's no surprise that Francis remembers how tired he is as soon as dinner is over. Will leads him upstairs, pleased to find that Hannibal has already made a lovely blanket nest on the bed, complete with the stuffed monkey he claims to cuddle when he misses Will, and has put a bottle of water and some fresh flowers on the nightstand. Francis blinks at this cozy room like he's not sure what to make of it, but he's incredibly tired, and neatly removes his shoes and nothing else, sinking into the blankets fully clothed and hugging the monkey tightly. Will tells him that he's a good boy, and leaves quietly.

Downstairs Hannibal is finishing the dishes, and looks around to Will with bright yellow eyes. "Is he comfortable?"

"Seems to be," Will says, coming up and looping his arms around Hannibal's waist from behind. He sighs, resting his head on Hannibal's shoulder. "Looks like we'll need to invest in some 4XL big and tall pajamas, though."

"Francis seems to gain a great deal of psychological comfort from remaining clothed," Hannibal says. "I assume it was emphasized at home."

Will sighs. "I'll have to question him more about that."

"I know," Hannibal says, purring softly and setting the last few things in the drying rack while Will holds onto him, soothed by the vibration. "I'm glad he found his way to you, Will," he says at last, and Will chuckles around the lump in his throat.

"He's such a good dog," Will groans, and buries his face in Hannibal's shoulder. 

Abused pets are the hardest for Will to take, and he feels it catching up with him now that he doesn't have to be reassuring for Francis. Hannibal ushers him to the couch and then curls up on top of Will, purring thunderously. He's too large to be fully contained in Will's lap and incredibly heavy, but Will doesn't make him move. Hannibal is very warm and vibrates comfortably with his purring, and Will zones out on him a little, his mind a dreamy haze even though he's nowhere near asleep. His eyes snap open at the gentle creak of the front door, and Mischa trills softly in greeting, her tail waving as she comes prowling in. Hannibal trills back, and Will smiles.

"Sssmells like dog," Mischa says, settling beside them on the couch and patting the side of Will's face. "Nice dog?"

"Nice dog," Will says, and sighs. "Abused dog."

Mischa hisses quietly, and shakes her head, patting him again before prowling into the kitchen to see what she can find. "Tonight's leftovers have the red lids," Hannibal calls, and Mischa trills acknowledgment. Will sighs and hides his face again, just bathing himself in Hannibal's Hannibalness as he continues to purr. "My poor Will," he says softly, and Will chuckles.

"Our poor Francis," he says, and Hannibal nods, turning enough to look Will in the face and stroke his hair.

"I will help you take good care of him," he says, and Will smiles.

"I had a feeling you would." 

Hannibal isn't fully qualified as a pet counselor yet, and that's for the best right now. There's no real paperwork involved if he helps out with Francis in the softer capacities, like feeding him properly and being an accepting, friendly kemonomimi under the same roof. Will brings Hannibal's hand up to kiss it, and Hannibal pats his face in that loving, feline way that is so much a part of his life now, chuckling as Will kisses his palm.

"O precious human," he croons, and Will snorts.

"O darling kitty-cat," he coos in return, and grins. "At least that shit goes both ways around here."

"Of course it does," Hannibal says. "You are at least as adorable as I am, probably more so."

Will laughs, and feels better than he has all day.


	5. Learning Doesn't Have To Hurt

The usual postprandial routine of the Graham-Lecter household these days is for Will to choose between tying flies, reading, and catching up on paperwork, while Hannibal guides Mischa through speech exercises to reduce her feline accent. Will understands her easily, but he works with kemonomimi full-time, which gives him a vast advantage. Will supports the movement toward kemonomimi pride and owning and celebrating one's animal traits, but he has to admit that for her own safety, Mischa should be at least a bit more intelligible to the average human.

Hannibal leads, with crisp, perfect pronunciation that he doesn't actually use day-to-day, and Mischa does her best to follow, all soft, broad feline vowels and rolled consonants. Sometimes the words are barely recognizable, but her brother is endlessly patient with her. He helps her repeat certain sounds over and over, and laughs with her rather than at her.

"Mile," Hannibal says, stretching out the syllables and making the i as sharp as possible.

"Myaal," Mischa says, and Hannibal shakes his head.

"Wrong," he says, "try it again."

They all jump when Francis howls. He's about halfway down the stairs, and as Will looks up he sees Francis cringing as small as he can, ears flattened and tail as tightly tucked as it was when Will met him. The dry pants provided by Queen Mother Bailey are no longer dry, but at least it's not a real mess.

"Francis?" Will asks, getting up. The dogs are worried too, and come with him, trying to wag and smile reassuringly. Francis is saying something over and over, and Will is pretty sure that the phrase is 'wrong bad,' blurred together like it's all one word. "Francis, sweetheart," he says, sitting down beside him and putting one arm around those massive shoulders, "it's okay! It's okay for Mischa to be wrong. Nobody's gonna hurt her. Nobody's gonna hurt you."

Francis whimpers and leans into Will, quivering. A few of the dogs press against him, and he smiles a little through his terror. Will makes soothing noises at him and rubs his back. Once the cats are sure that Francis won't actually explode, they come padding over, eyes wide and wary. Francis whines and his eyes fill with tears. 

Mischa reaches out and pats him, and then signs _okay okay good dog no cry_ a few times. Francis tenses up a little more, looking around nervously, his fingers twitching.

"It's okay to sign," Will croons at him, "it's always okay for you to sign, we want to know what you're thinking." 

Some of the worst guardians of kemonomimi regard nonverbal communication as animal and therefore disgusting. Will is furious to think of Francis being punished for trying to communicate in the way that works best for him, but not at all surprised. He puts the anger to the side, staying as soothing as he can for Francis.

 _good cats,_ Francis signs, and they both smile. _no hurt for wrong?_

"Never," Hannibal tells him. "I love my sister, and I want her to learn to speak better, not to hurt her."

Francis signs his whole speech history then, about never being able to get it right and being punished for every mistake. Queen Mother had been the one to teach him his signs, and they had carefully hidden their communication from Mrs. Dolarhyde. Francis feels like he's a bad, stupid dog who doesn't work hard enough, of course, and that prompts Hannibal to tell Francis all about his own laryngeal surgery. The stairs are no place for real conversation, and Will is pleased at how easily Francis lets Hannibal lead him into the kitchen and feed him again, with a lovely plate of cheese, crackers, cold cuts, and fruit. Francis blinks down at its beauty, but once gently assured that he may eat it, he starts right in. 

Will makes a note to call Dr. Sutcliffe for a consult for Francis, and then has one of those terrible moments of blurring between human and animal as he leads Francis to the bathroom to bathe. It feels just like coaxing a rescued real dog into letting him wash it, but at least Francis has thumbs and can handle the process on his own. He seems pretty fastidious, especially for a dogman, and Will can tell that he's glad of the chance for a shower. Will glances down at his notepad, and wonders how the hearing will go. The thought of his poor sweet Francis in prison is terrible, but also not very likely, given that he's a registered pet. Not only does that make him not legally competent for murder one, the kind of abuse he has endured is an enormous mitigating factor, as it was in Hannibal's case. Will can stomach sleeping with a vicious spree killer when there was a reason for it.

For the moment, Will goes in search of clothes for Francis. Queen Mother had only had the one set on hand, and the first one isn't washed yet, so they'll have to improvise. Hannibal has an oversized t-shirt that should fit, but pants present a much greater problem. At last he finds a pair of pajama bottoms that are a solid three sizes too big, crammed into the back of the back of his closet for at least the past three years. They'll have to do, and he makes his way back to the bathroom, able to hear that Francis has switched the shower off. He's nervously peeking through the cracked door with one big eye, and Will smiles at him.

"Sorry, I had to find things that would fit you. These should, but if they don't, you can just wear my bathrobe while we do the laundry," Will says, handing the clothes into the bathroom. Francis nods, makes sure that Will's hands are out of danger, and closes the door.

It's hard to concentrate on his flies when he's thinking about Francis, but Will does his best. The cats are having similar problems with their speech drills. Mischa, with feral wisdom, is the first to just give up. She wanders away from the table with a flick of her tail that apparently politely makes her excuses to Hannibal, and pulls out one of the DVDs for cats that Hannibal had quietly acquired after his return from the Feral Nation. Will finds them soothing, and it's as safe a bet as anything can be for Francis, just wordless, plotless images of rodents, birds, and fish, with no soundtrack but quiet, natural noises.


	6. A Quiet Evening

When Francis finally comes to join them, Will does his best to ignore him. It tends to relax nervous dogs if they can scope out the situation before being approached. At least the vibe is way calmer, and when Will looks up, Francis smiles and wags his tail. Will smiles back.

"Hey, buddy," he says. "We've decided to just relax a bit. Find yourself a comfortable spot."

"Good evening, Francis," Hannibal adds, and Mischa trills sweetly, curled up by the fire with the dogs. Francis is still a little uneasy, but the fire is inviting, and soon he's cautiously curling up with the dogs. He looks confused and wary, and so heartbreakingly happy to just be warm and comfortable and not alone. He lets out a gusty sigh, half meaningless dog-breathing, half human comfort and satisfaction.

Hannibal smiles, and soon he's down to shirtsleeves and pants, cuddling up with his sister and with Francis. Will feels a surge of gratitude and pride that his animals are getting along so well, and then immediately feels like a creep. It's true, though, and it's a good thing. He turns his attention back to tying flies, and only looks up when Mischa pads up and starts batting at the various pieces of fur and colored floss. Will laughs, even as he bats her hands away. "Hey now," he says, "if these get tangled, it takes forever to fix."

"Gyiv yuu sssaahmthing tuu duu aun wintarrrr yevenings," she says, and Will snorts.

"Believe me, the Bureau provides more than enough paperwork to wile away the hours." He glances over at Francis, who looks a little frightened but is being lovingly petted by Hannibal. "Don't worry, Francis," Will says, "it takes a lot more than this to make me mad. And even then I don't hurt. No switches, no shock collars, not even a rolled up newspaper, I swear. I might yell, but I'll try not to, okay?"

Francis nods, and he does look a little calmer.

"Tttakes a lllot to myake him yaoeell," Mischa adds, and Will smiles.

"Thanks for the endorsement, Mischa."

Francis looks worried again, and a signs a question about speech exercises. Will shakes his head. "We can't be sure what the trouble is, yet, buddy. You might need to get your larynx fixed. Hannibal needed it."

"It's true," Hannibal says, stretching his arms over his head. "I couldn't speak a word, and didn't even now KSL. Will understood me pretty well anyway."

"Aw, sweetheart," Will croons, and Hannibal pulls himself out of the pile to prowl over and kiss him softly. Francis blushes, but looks happy for them. Mischa just yawns and blinks slowly at everyone, gently licking Francis's cheek. He smiles, and looks a little more comfortable. Mischa smiles back. The room sinks back into companionable silence, and Will hums to himself, carefully winding floss.

Francis is fast asleep when the rest of them decide to go to bed, and Will has to gently shake and pet him awake, murmuring that he needs to go to bed. He stops at the bathroom first, and then lets Will take him upstairs and tuck him in. Kit jumps onto the bed to cuddle him, and Will smiles. He wishes Francis a good night and leaves his door cracked, so Kit can escape. Francis seems to be all right in the dark, but Will switches on the nightlight in the hall anyway.

Going back downstairs, he just catches Mischa prowling out with a container of leftovers. He smiles, and she trills in response, coming up to rub her cheek on his shoulder before returning to her original path, vanishing into the night. Hannibal is already curled up in bed, the tip of his tail curling and uncurling where it protrudes from underneath the blanket. He's propped up and reading, ears turned to follow Will. Will chuckles, and takes the dogs out to be sure no one needs to pee, before coming in and performing his own ablutions. It's only about ten o'clock, but it feels much later, and Will sighs as he crawls in beside Hannibal.

Immediately, Hannibal sets his book aside, turns down the light, and wraps himself around Will. He rubs along Will's thigh in a meaningful way, and Will sighs.

"I have a client upstairs and I'm exhausted, Hannibal," Will murmurs, even as Hannibal presses sharp teeth to his neck and his cock starts to fill. "Goddammit, cat," Will says, and Hannibal chuckles against his skin before biting him again.

"I'll do all the work," he says, purring around the words.

Will groans quietly as Hannibal wraps a hand around him, squirming and grabbing a pillow to stuff into his mouth as Hannibal shifts on top of him and lines them up. The nubs on the base of his cock have the same ticklish, addictive feeling as always, and Will whines, letting go of the pillow to grab Hannibal's face and kiss him. Hannibal purrs and uses one hand to stroke both of them, thrusting in just the right rhythm for Will, who just clutches at his ass and tries not to make too much noise as Hannibal comes first and coats him in silky-hot semen, panting and beautiful and not missing a beat, still stroking Will for the tiny amount of time it takes before he's bucking and clawing at Hannibal's back with one hand and cramming the pillow back into his mouth with the other, doing everything he can to keep back a yell. 

To his eternal credit, Hannibal cleans them up afterward, and by the time he snuggles down beside Will, the scene is completely respectable. He cuddles in against Will's chest and nuzzles at his collarbones with a happy little feline noise. Will is half-asleep, but manages to mumble, "Love you."

"I love you too, precious monkeything," Hannibal tells him, and kisses his cheek. Will slides into a dream of jungles and climbing and of jungle cats that are just as ferocious as they seem, but also very amenable to petting.


	7. Home Inspection

Will's next workday begins with a call from Queen Mother. He is at least upright and ingesting coffee when the phone rings, but it's still way too early even on a normal day. Much like when he had emergency custody of Hannibal, Will isn't expected to show his face at the office before noon. Now Hannibal groans, in the middle of mixing pancake batter and unable to help, so Will actually has to get up and shuffle across the floor to yesterday's pants. As he picks it up, Francis comes downstairs, and Will smiles at him, gesturing him on to the kitchen where Hannibal trills a happy greeting.

"Hello?" he says to the phone.

"Agent Graham?" Queen Mother Bailey asks. She has a bell-toned voice that would be good for preaching, and speaks slowly, the way people do out in the country.

"Yes, ma'am," he says, feeling the Louisiana creeping back into his voice. "How are you this morning?"

"Fine, thank you kindly," she says. "Yourself?"

"Still trying to wake up, but I've been worse. We're about to have breakfast."

"You know I'm going to be visiting Possum," she says, and Will sighs and smiles at the same times. Legally, he could deny her. It would mean a little more paperwork and even with kids to feed she might be able to take it to court, but he could. Even though it means company first thing in the day, Will has seldom wanted to keep anyone away less. "I know you will," is what he says into Queen Mother's defiant silence. "I'm not due at the office until noon, they know I have Francis to take care of. Come by at half-past nine, I'll be decent and we'll all be fed."

She thanks him with way too much emotion for it to be comfortable, and hangs up. Will feels more than a little drained, but not really unhappy. It's good that someone else gives a shit about Francis's well-being. Pancakes and scrambled eggs restore him a bit, as does affectionate nuzzling from his dogs and from both cats. Will doesn't mention Queen Mother just yet, not wanting Francis to get too keyed up to eat. Will watches him sidelong, and waits for him to be well into his second plateful before bringing it up.

"Francis?" Francis looks up, attentive as any other dog hearing his name. Will smiles. "Hey, buddy. Remember how I was on the phone when you came downstairs?" Francis nods. "Well, I was talking to Queen Mother. You can't stay with her, but she's coming to see you right after breakfast."

Francis looks elated at the prospect, and a little terrified. He gestures at himself and then very hesitantly points toward the laundry room. "You want you real clothes?" Will asks, and Francis nods frantically. 

"Don't worry, big guy," Will tells him, getting up from his second cup of coffee. "She'll be happy to see you, whatever you're wearing." This does seem to reassure Francis a bit, but he's still very glad to get properly dressed. Watching him fuss with his collar, Will has the sudden realization that it isn't just that Francis wants to be correct to avoid punishment, but that he's honestly a little vain. It delights him, and he's smiling as he goes to get dressed, since he can't face Queen Mother in a bathrobe over nudity. Hannibal can, but Will tells him to go get dressed, anyway.

"With legal humanity you take on the burden of pants, Hannibal!" he calls after Hannibal, who hisses quietly at him as he goes in search of clothing.

Mischa loiters for a while, but at the sound of a car in the driveway, her ears flatten out to the sides. Hannibal pats her face soothingly, and she flees to the barn. She'll probably come back later, when her curiosity gets the better of her. For now, Hannibal lightly vaults the porch railing and goes to open Queen Mother's door for her. He greets her very prettily and insists on carrying everything she brought, a collection of Francis's clothing, some toys, a few books, which reminds Will to figure out how literate Francis is or isn't.

The dogs rush out to see who this new friend is, and Francis goes with them to give her a big hug, holding on for a long time while Hannibal flits past Will an into the house to deposit Francis's things. Will just stands still and lets the others move around him. The dogs bounce around Francis and Queen Mother when they finally stand apart, and they way their tails and beam approbation as they follow them up the steps. Francis is still holding her hand, and Will smiles.

Queen Mother tours the entire house in just the way Will hoped that she wouldn't, but she's not horrible about it. She doesn't laugh or tsk about the state of things, mostly just making sure that Francis has a comfortable bed and that there's some room for his things. The worst part is being thanked and fussed over, though of course Hannibal basks in his share. Queen Mother is a very huggy woman, but Will can forgive her that because she honestly means it.

Over coffee she tells them about Missouri while Francis is upstairs putting his personal effects away. Francis can read, though at what grade level she can't be sure. "Mrs. Dolarhyde was a very troubled lady," she says, choosing the words carefully and infusing them with a great deal of meaning, "but if I had no one to look after a child or two, they could come to work with me, provided they sat still and stayed quiet. That suited me and it made them get their homework done. She gave up teaching Possum when she couldn't get him to talk proper, but he kept on a little on his own. He was about sixteen when Mrs. Dolarhyde hired me, and when he saw my kids learning, he couldn't help but sidle up. Hungry for it, you know?"

Will nods. "I know."

"He's real bright." She sighs, and Will can see lost scholastic opportunities dancing in her eyes. "Real bright, Possum is. He doesn't always act like it, but who does?"


	8. Kittens Having Kittens

Queen Mother is just finishing her coffee when Francis comes trotting downstairs, tail wagging and ears relaxed. It's nice to see him this way, and to see him so comfortable in Queen Mother's arms. After a lot more hugging and a long KSL conversation on the couch, Will has to look at the clock and remind everyone that it's past eleven now.

Francis can legally stay here under Hannibal's watch, or come into work with Will. What he really wants is to stay with Queen Mother, but in the end he decides to go with Will. Queen Mother wants him to get a real assessment, and that gives him courage. He cries when Queen Mother leaves, of course, like the lost dogman he is, but it passes soon, and he's calm by the time by the time he joins Will in the car.

Will smiles at him, waiting for him to buckle his seat belt before pulling out of the driveway. "You can pick the music," he says, and Francis starts scanning for something heavy. He finds some Black Sabbath and relaxes back into his seat, eyes closed. He has the same beatific look on his face that Hannibal gets when he listens to good opera.

At the Division, Francis reverts to his old tension, ears plastered flat and tail curled tight. It's already nearly noon, but Will takes a while to sit with Francis and just pet him, assuring him that the team are all personal friends of his, and would be kind to Francis even if they weren't. None of them will be angry if Francis wets, if he cries, if he gets scared and has to hide, almost anything.

"They'll only be angry if you try to hurt them," Will says, "and I know you won't do that, so what's to worry about?" He smiles and Francis does his best to smile back, the tip of his tail wagging a little. "That's a good boy," Will croons before he can stop himself, and Francis's smile gets a little stronger.

"Are we ready?" Jimmy asks, poking his head in through the doorway. 

Francis flinches a little, and Will pats his knee. "I think so," he says. "Take it easy on Francis, he's nervous."

Jimmy smiles. "I'm always nice to the nervous ones," he says, and holds out a hand to Francis. "Come on. You'll see Will again, don't worry," he adds when Francis hesitates, glancing back at Will.

"You will," Will says, and Francis nods, turning to obediently follow Jimmy, like an ocean liner with a tugboat. Will watches them out of sight, and then heads to his own office.

As usual, Will has more than enough to do. His first case of the day is an extremely young catgirl who is not only pregnant but refuses to name the father to her distraught parents. Her name is Rachelle and her cat parts are jet black, her tail swishing as she paces Will's office in high dudgeon. Her parents are outside, since she's definitely through talking to them for the moment. She clearly considers the conception as part of a consensual relationship, and Will would bet his left nut that the father is a kemonomimi freak, some loser with a fetish who can't get anyone his own age. She's a very beautiful child, with sleek black hair, huge green eyes, and a trim little figure, but child is the operative word, dammit.

"--And it's not like Mom is helping any," Rachelle snarls, "wringing her fuckin' hands and talking about how she didn't raise me this way and Jesus wants us all to be good housepets and never ever fuck or shit or _breathe_ ," she stops by his desk, rolling her eyes heavenward before her hard look of disdain dissolves into tears, because she's only fourteen and has no idea what to do.

Will nods. "I know it's annoying, and I know it's hurtful. But I'm also pretty sure your mother really cares about you. Everything she asked us was about you, what this would mean for your life and how to be sure your stayed healthy and got an education. She wasn't treating it like something you had done to her, the way a selfish parent would."

Rachelle sighs, and slumps into the chair. "It's just... it's just really, really complicated, okay?"

"You know," Will says, studying her, "I think it is." There's something so achingly protective about her now, and Will hopes like hell that the guy isn't an AWOL solder, escaped prisoner, or major drug trafficker.. He has found that adolescent girls are often desperate to talk to anyone who will take them seriously, and Rachelle turns out to be no exception. First she asks him about the statutory rape laws, and when Will finishes the basic explanation, she finally cracks.

"S-so it's okay if you're both underage, right?" she asks, voice wobbling. She's hugging herself now, ears flattened to the sides.

"You have to be within two years of each other," Will says, and she bursts into tears.

"What if you don't know how old he is?" she sobs, and Will passes her the box of tissues.

"How about you just tell me all about it, and then I'll tell you what I think?"

"Okay," Rachelle says, and does a pretty good job of putting things in order for a frightened kid. 

Last summer she had crossed into the Feral Nation on a dare, and while she was there she had met a nonverbal but very clever catboy. From the way she talks about it, Will can tell that the crush had been instantaneous. At least the feral sounds like he really might be safe under the two-year law, and like he treats her well, first as a friend and then as something more as the year had turned. Now it's summer again, and she's explaining the whole mess to Will.

"So like, am I the one raping him?" Rachelle asks through floods of tears. "And if I keep the baby will it count as human or feral?" 

Will gently pats her face in the feline way, and she calms down. "We can work this out," Will says softly, and Rachelle nods, ears relaxing just a little.


	9. Freckles

Will doesn't have time to worry about Francis until three o'clock. After setting Rachelle up with various other services and helping her parents with the bushel of related forms, he only has a minute or so to wash his face and attempt to ground himself before his appointment with an elderly pet dog whose current carers need some extra help and training now that his medications are more complicated. At least he seems to be doing well on them, walking better than the last time Will saw him, his weathered face split in a broad smile.

"Hugs!" he croaks, and Will chuckles, coming forward to wrap his arms around that wizened little frame. He could use some hugs, definitely.

"Hey, Freckles," he says, gently scritching the dogman behind one black and white speckled ear.

"When I said we were going to see Agent Graham he actually did his little happy dance," the woman at the door says, coming in and taking a seat. Will privately thinks of this one of the two Ms. Lindgrens as the wife, even though most of the lesbians he has met are annoyed by that. It's hard to help it when this one wears lipstick and high heels and the other has a shaved head and wears suits.

Will chuckles, still petting Freckles. "Glad to hear that his knees are up to it these days." Freckles is probably about seventy, but it's hard to be sure. These days he probably qualifies for a place in a supported residence, but he loves the Lindgrens and they love him. He is also very fond of Will, and cuddles him while he looks over the medical report.

"We're getting the hang of it," Ms. Lindgren says, "but he has missed a couple of doses, you know how things are."

"I do," Will says, "but it does look like he's improving. Aren't you, honey?" he coos to Freckles, who beams at him, tail wagging.

"Yes hugs," Freckles says, giving Will another affectionate squeeze and making him laugh. He has just been through an actual medical examination, but he's a patient old fellow and doesn't complain when Will gently squeezes his joints. More importantly, he doesn't draw back. His breath isn't exactly minty fresh when Will looks at his teeth, but it's not rank, and every tooth that's still there looks pretty good. "Has someone finally been letting you brush his teeth?" Will asks, and Ms. Lindgren laughs.

"Turns out that that peanut butter flavored sensitive-tooth stuff was just what we needed," she says.

"I thought it might help. I use it for one of my real dogs, it's probably the only reason there's a single tooth left in her head." There's that little ripple of wrongness he always feels when making comparisons like this, but dammit, it's true. It works very well for Luna and he's glad that it's helping Freckles.

"Okay, honey," Will says to Freckles, "Good boy. Treat?"

"Treat!" Freckles agrees, prancing a little on his spindly old legs. 

Will chuckles, and digs into the stash of things meant for rabbits and birds, since Freckles's meds won't mix with even a tiny amount of beer, though he still likes the taste and would certainly take it if Will didn't keep track of these things. Fortunately, Freckles has a wide variety of favorite foods. Like many dogs and dogpeople, he likes certain fruits, and now he happily sits at Ms. Lindgren's feet to eat his little paper cup of blueberries as Will discusses his continuing treatment plan with Ms. Lindgren. There's another chair, but Freckles likes being able to rest his head on Ms. Lindgren's knee, his poor old knees protected by the fluffy rug Wills keeps for clients who prefer the floor.

"It looks like I can give you a clean bill of bureaucratic health," Will says, "but I do think we should have one of the nurses stop in, just to be sure things are right. These are powerful drugs we've got him on, and the more monitoring, the better." He looks down at Freckles and smiles. "I'd be more hesitant to have him deal with so many strangers in his territory, but he's such a sweetheart."

She smiles, ruffling Freckles's white hair. "It's true, a stranger is just a friend he hasn't met yet. Makes me worry about him getting out, but at least he had that class on protecting himself. I hope it stuck."

"He's a pretty clever pup," Will says, "I think he'd make it home." He glances at the clock and sees that they have a few minutes left. "How are your wife and the cats?"

"Mallory's great," she says, "just got that promotion she was gunning for, and Angel has finally decided that Freckles is all right."

Freckles looks up from his last berry. "Angel kitty good!"

Ms. Lindgren chuckles, stroking Freckles's ears. "Yeah, sweetie, she is."

The Lindgrens have rescued real cats for years, and Angel is merely the latest of many to realize that the bizarre old dogman can be depended upon to pet them as long as they require, and to provide an excellent napping surface. Will makes sure that he has their next home visit scheduled. Really, Freckles placed himself, but since Will was the one to make it legal, he's the one to dip in four times a year to be sure Freckles is still all right, the low frequency well-earned by many years of the Lindgrens doing their utmost to keep Freckles happy and healthy.

After sending Freckles out, Will finds that he has a whole fifteen minutes free, and uses it to go down to the testing floors to see how Francis is doing. Will has of course warned them that Francis is used to being punished for mistakes with no allowances made for possible physical problems, but he's still more than a little worried that even Jimmy's gentle and jovial way with nervous kemonomimi won't be enough to keep Francis from panicking.


	10. Puppy Babies

There are a lot of different cubicles in the Assessment Office, and Will is always reminded of a rabbit warren when he has to make his way through it. By the time he works his way to the back, he's tense as hell and absolutely delighted to see Francis calmly pointing out words he knows on the communication board that Starling is holding.

"Good job," she's saying when Will knocks on the cubicle wall, and Will can see that they're already onto fifth-level words, which encompass eighth through twelfth grade reading levels.

Francis turns and beams at him, his tail wagging where it sticks through the back of his chair. "Hi!" he barks, the word blurry but understandable.

Will grins. "Hi, Francis. Getting along with Agent Starling?" Francis nods eagerly, and points at the board. "I see," Will says. "You know those, huh?" Francis nods again, pointing to each word in turn.

"I'm not surprised," Starling says, taking the words down and putting the level six ones up. "You like to read, don't you, Francis?" 

Francis nods, wagging his tail. He still looks a little nervous at this honest admission, but he's doing much better than Will was afraid of. Will pats his shoulder, and watches attentively as as he assembles a history of his day so far on the smaller communication board Starling has given him. Francis has been entered as an open case, coaxed through some games that work as early assessments, and then given a battery of symbol and word literacy tests. 

He has also been given given beef jerky and reassuring pats, to wonderful effect. After years of his grandmother restricting access to food and Queen Mother secretly allowing it, being given treats out in the open seems to be an enormous help in letting Francis know that the rules have changed to his benefit. The honeymoon can't last forever, eventually his guilt about killing his only relative will be back, but for now he wags his tail and uses his blurry words to thank Starling for another piece of jerky.

"You're welcome, Francis," she says, and her voice is just right, friendly but not baby talk. She glances at the clock, and then at Will. "I think we've got time for two more of the big ones, but we'd have to start now."

Francis also looks to Will, with a conciliatory wag, and Will smiles. "I have plenty of work of my own," he says. "Both of you keep up the good work. Francis, I'll be here to pick you up at five, okay?"

"Okay!" he says, and turns his attention back to Starling, who is digging out yet another assessment folder. 

Francis sits with genuinely calm ears and tail, and Will smiles as he leaves. Starling has the deft touch that a successful agent needs, and Will makes a note to tell Jimmy that. For now, Will makes his way back to his own office, taking in the tenor of this floor as he goes. He likes to keep track of their clients in general, not just the ones that actually cross his desk, and exchanges smiles and affiliative blinks with several of them. He gets back to his own office just in time to look in on another young mother.

Generally, pets have their tubes tied. The process is carefully explained, and those who cannot comprehend any explanation and those who don't object have the procedure. Those who don't often don't conceive anyway, carefully looked after and engaging in supervised play-dates and sometimes conjugal visits with other sterilized pets. And then there are cases like Spot, a lovely pet dog with a laboratory background that made her completely unwilling to undergo any medical procedure that wasn't for the purpose of saving her life. Now she is the proud mother of a pair of twins, conceived with a neighbor dog whose own tubal ligation had quietly reversed itself. 

Under current law, no pet may be separated from their children unless violence against the children can be proved, and so Spot's human family is getting used to a pair of adorable twin dogbabies. The proud father is here today as well, wagging his luxuriantly feathered golden tail and licking Spot's ear as she settles into a comfortable chair to nurse her babies. The babies are fat and happy and Spot seems very pleased with them, which makes Will smile. Her humans look a little haggard, but they glow with love when they talk about their precious babies, how well both of them are growing, and how kind and attentive Sunny is being. 

The children are far too small to be assessed with any accuracy yet, since those who grow up to be true ferals and pets pass all the same motor stages as healthy human children, and most kemonomimi children are slow to vocalize. Whatever these two grow up to be like, they're bright-eyed and friendly, and Spot smiles as Will approaches. Early on she had been very protective of her babies, but now she's a little calmer and knows Will better. She offers him the smaller one, probably because doctors always want to see this one first, and Will smiles, taking the baby.

"Thank you, Spot," he says as he hefts the baby's soft, warm weight, pleased at how heavy she is for her size, and how alert, baby button ears tipped forward. Even when kemonomimi are proven to only understand a few words, he always makes sure to talk to them rather than around them. Spot grins and wags her stubby tail. 

"What a pretty baby you are," he adds to the child in his arms, and she giggles and claps her chubby hands. Just like Freckles, both of the children have already been looked at by a doctor today, so Will just admires each one in turn, assuring himself that nothing obvious has gone unnoticed. Sunny looks more than a little nervous at Will handling his babies, but he stays calm as long as they do.

After looking the children over, Will thanks Sunny for putting up with it, and commends him for his attention to his mate. Sunny gives him a cautious wag, and Will smiles and pulls out a strip of jerky, tearing it in two and giving Sunny the small half and Spot the bigger one, since she's nursing.

"It looks like you're all doing quite well together," Will says, "but don't let yourselves get too tired." Spot's humans are nearly fifty and had thought that they were done raising babies, so before they leave he makes sure that they know who to call for qualified kemonomimi infant care.


	11. Home Again

It has been a full day, and Will is very glad when there isn't a sudden emergency call and he can leave when he planned. If nothing else, he wouldn't want to have to explain it to Francis, who is already so nervous. As it is, he reaches Jimmy's office right at five, and Francis beams at him, wagging his tail and eating strawberries from one of the little plastic cups. Will smiles back, and settles into the other chair.

"All right?" he asks, and Francis nods.

Jimmy chuckles, tucking a few papers into a manilla folder. "Francis is fine. He's intelligent, as you already knew, but he has also managed to educate himself much better than most people would've in his situation."

Francis can't help a little cringe at that, and Will pats his shoulder. "I thought so," he says to Jimmy. "We can go over his scores at home."

"You are qualified," Jimmy says, handing the folder to Will. "Anyway," he adds, to Francis, "you did very well."

Francis wags his tail, and Will smiles. He tucks the folder away and tells Jimmy that Starling has promise. Jimmy then has to fuss about how he knows full well and is already watching her, and that's more than enough time for Francis to finish his berries. He stands when Will does, and takes his hand, swamping it in that huge mitt of his. Will gives him a reassuring squeeze, and leads the way to the elevator. Francis is still a little subdued, but he seems to be comforted by holding Will's hand. Will laces their fingers together, and by the time they reach the parking garage, Francis's ears and tail are sitting in a more relaxed way. As soon as they get into the car Francis starts scanning the radio. Will smiles waiting for him to remember to buckle his seat belt before carefully pulling out to the street. Soon enough, Francis hits some hard rock, and relaxes further. When he starts howling the melody, Will sings along.

As soon as they pull up to the house, Mischa releases the hounds, the whole pack charging down the steps to greet them. Will laughs and Francis wags his tail in delight, always soothed by the presence of other canine types. Will glances up from petting the dogs to see Mischa poised at the top of the stairs, and smiles. She smiles back, prowling down the steps in that feline, beauty queen way to give each of them a fond hug and a light scent mark on the shoulder.

Inside, the house is perfumed with something warm, meaty, and probably southeast Asian. Hannibal comes padding out of the kitchen, and kisses Will so long and so thoroughly that he's more than a little breathless when he breaks away. Hannibal beams at them. "I'm making pho," he says. "I hope you like it."

"I'm sure we will," Will says, and gives him a more chaste kiss before pouring himself some whiskey and settling on the couch with Jimmy's report. Francis follows Hannibal back into to the kitchen, and Winston hops up on one side of Will while Mischa snuggles up to him on the other.

"Mischa," he says, stroking her hair, "you're not allowed to read Francis's file." Mischa makes an irritated noise and ostentatiously turns her head away, otherwise not moving an inch. Will chuckles, and keeps petting her as he reads.

Really, Will already has most of the information that Starling and Jimmy were able to glean. Francis began extremely nervous, but started to do very well once he was calmer, something that doesn't surprise Will at all. Now that Francis is beginning to realize that he will be encouraged rather than brutally squashed, Will is sure that he has the equipment to make up for lost time. The full extent of his vocabulary actually is a bit of a surprise, but otherwise, the results are about what he was expecting.

Hannibal calls both of them to the table at last. To no one's surprise, the pho is excellent. It does Will's heart good to see the way that Francis just vacuums it up, apparently beginning to realize that they meant it when they said that he could eat as much as he wants at meals. Some people who come through the kind of bullshit Francis did, especially dogpeople, gorge to the point of sickness and have to be carefully watched, but thankfully Queen Mother's care and surreptitious feeding seem to have headed that off. Francis even has pretty table manners, probably mercilessly drilled into him by his grandmother.

After dinner, Francis helps Hannibal do the dishes, the picture of a well-adjusted dogman except for that damnable collar. Will has wanted to take it off since he first saw it, but it's also almost guaranteed to trigger the kind of sudden drop that he tries to avoid. Francis is eventually going to remember that he's a bad dog who killed his poor grandmother, and Will just hopes that it's not too catastrophic when it hits. Mischa gives everyone a last nuzzle and then slinks out to the barn, and Will takes the dogs for a run, tired of thinking.

Will comes back to quiet house, Hannibal washing a last few dishes, and Francis nowhere in sight. Will slips out of his shoes and goes to join Hannibal, putting his arms around him. Hannibal purrs, tail swishing between Will's calves.

"Francis all right?"

"I think so," Hannibal murmurs. "He's upstairs with Buster guarding him, and Mischa has made her way back to the barn." He sighs. "I'm really not sure that it's warm enough there."

"I can leave more blankets for her to nest with," Will says, and kisses Hannibal's cheek. "And you know you can spend the night out there any time you want, I won't mind."

"I know you won't mind," Hannibal purrs, drying his hands off before turning in Will's arms to face him, "but I mind not sleeping next to you."


	12. Nightmare

Will may have been waiting for the other shoe to drop, but Francis's howling still shocks him out of a sound sleep. He's up before he knows it, tense all over and only then awake. Poor Francis is crying piteously upstairs, the terrible rough sobs of a man and the awful whimpering of an abandoned puppy, and Will takes the steps two at a time to reach him. The guest room door is standing open, the usual crack widened by worried dogs, and Francis is a lump of howling misery on the bed. Will switches on the light and goes to him, carefully lifting one edge of the massed blankets.

"Francis?" he asks, as gently as he can. Francis just makes another miserable noise, knotted up tight, and Will sighs, sitting on the edge of the bed and peeling the covers back. Sure enough, there's poor Francis, curled up into a tight ball, the sheets wet with piss.

"Bad dog," Francis groans, and then repeats it over and over, berating himself until Will reaches over and unbuckles his collar. 

Francis is so worked up that Will is afraid he'll choke on it, that great, corded neck swelling on both sides of the leather with each sob. Besides, Francis can hardly feel more scared or guilty than he does now. He barely seems to notice the leather falling away, but he does respond a little when Will starts tugging at him. It's bit like tugging on a parked semi truck, but Francis is a cooperative sort of guy. Soon he's resting his head on Will's thigh, one huge paw of a hand lightly clutching at his knee. Francis is still sobbing, but more quietly, obviously calmed a little. The dogs sense it, and start filing in, Winston hopping onto the bed to help soothe everyone, as he so often does.

"Hush, hush," Will croons, gently stroking Francis's ears with one hand and Winston's with the other. "Easy, now," he murmurs, before sliding into the kind of meaningless noises he makes when the dogs are upset.

At long last, they come to an intermission in Francis's tears. He sniffles and is able sit up, still looking utterly miserable. Will can see him becoming aware of just how cold and wet he is, and smiles sadly.

"It's okay, Francis. Get up and shower, and I'll change the bed. Nice and warm," he adds as Francis nods and pads away to the bathroom. Will has a terrible feeling that he'll keep the shower icy cold as self-punishment unless told not to. 

Even with the order, after Will has stripped the bed, he tiptoes over to the bathroom to be sure that the air leaving it is warm and steamy. Once that's done he gets fresh linens out of the hall closet, along with a towel for the small damp spot on the mattress. By the time Francis emerges from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel and still looking miserable and scared, Will has his bed neatly made.

He turns to Francis and smiles. Francis whines, the tip of his tucked tail trying to wag, just a tiny movement under the terrycloth. "Baohd daowg?" he asks, and Will shakes his head.

"No, Francis," he says, and pulls that massive frame into a hug. "Good dog." 

He holds Francis for a long time, and only when his heartbeat and breathing have slowed a bit does he sit him down on the edge of the bed and ask him what he dreamed about. Francis hesitates. and then starts signing. He was dreaming about that last fateful whipping, of course, and Will listens to his grief as patiently as he can. Francis's grandmother may have been a monster, but she was nearly all he had. He tells him again and again that he didn't mean to, that it's all right. It takes at least an hour, but Francis is calm at last, in a clean, dry bed, with about half the around and on the bed. Will carefully tucks Francis in, and strokes his hair, gazing down into those wide, blue-grey eyes.

"I mean it, Francis," Will says softly. "Good dog." Francis smiles just a little, and his tail wags under the blanket. Will smiles back. "Yeah," he says, gently scratching Francis behind the ears, "good dog." 

Francis closes his eyes and relaxes, and once Will is sure that he's close enough to being asleep, he slips out. Tomorrow he'll have to see about actual therapy for Francis and not just a roof over his head. Will groans, rubbing at his face and then pouring himself a few fingers of whiskey. While he has soothing Francis down he had found the time to wonder where Hannibal is, and just as the question occurs again, the man himself comes prowling in.

"Mrrrrrow?" he inquires, wrapping his arms around Will’s waist as Will takes a long sip of the drink. He puts his hands over Hannibal's after he sets the glass down, and sighs, leaning back into Hannibal's embrace.

"I was up with Francis. Bad dreams."

"Mrrrrmm," Hannibal says, very sympathetically, and rubs his cheek against Will's, making him chuckle, feeling both loved and ridiculous.

"Did you and Mischa have a pleasant evening?" Will asks, and Hannibal gives him an affirmative trill. Will downs his drink and turns in Hannibal's arms to give him a whiskey-flavored kiss. "I love you, but please speak human." Hannibal murmurs comfortingly in Japanese and Will chuckles. "That'll do. Come back to bed with me."

Sometimes Hannibal gets into these moods where he doesn't feel like talking, and communicates in gesture and cat noises. Will sort of wishes he minded it more than he does. As it is, he curls up with Hannibal wrapped around his back, purring. His tail wraps over Will's hip, and Will sighs.

"I made such a point of not being into kemonomimi," he mutters, and Hannibal chuckles, hugging him more tightly and nuzzling into his hair. Both of them are listening for Francis, but he stays quiet, and at last Will can let sleep overtake him again.


	13. Bird Girl

In the morning Francis is still pretty fragile, and Hannibal takes the time to pat him and blink at him over breakfast. At least Francis still has an appetite. Much like real dogs, dogpeople only lose interest in food when the situation is pretty dire. Even with his ears nervously folded back, he puts away his fair share of oatmeal and bacon, and while he looks troubled at having to make his choice for the day, Hannibal is able to tilt the scale by promising chocolate chocolate chip cookies if Francis stays home today. Just like real dogs, dogpeople love chocolate, but unlike real dogs, they can process it just fine. Will gives Hannibal a kiss goodbye while Francis washes the breakfast dishes.

"He'll be all right," Hannibal murmurs, giving Will a slow blink and then another kiss.

"I know he will with you," Will says, and heads out to the office hoping he hasn't jinxed everything.

Apparently he hasn't, because Hannibal texts in an hour to say that Francis is enjoying his cookies very much, and that they're having productive conversations about Francis's treatment options. Will sends back a quick acknowledgment, and then puts his phone away to greet another client. At least today it's mostly business as usual. This is yet another pair of kemonomimi parents checking in to keep their animalistic child's benefits, but they're birds, which is always worthy of note. If cats were the most popular back in the slave days, birds were by far the least.

Will smiles at the lovely birdwoman sitting across from him. "Hello, Ms. Connor." Ms. Connor bobs her head in that friendly, avian way, and extends her feathered arm to shake Will’s hand. Mr. Connor is still busy corralling their daughter, who is eyeing Will’s small office with distrust. "Would a breeze help?" Will asks him. "The window opens."

"Please," Mr. Connor says, and Will gets up and opens the window. 

There's chicken wire to keep anyone from falling through, but it makes the office much more airy. The girl makes a few pleased chirps and sidles on in, jumping and flapping to land on top of Will's bookcase. For a moment it seems like the whole thing will crash to the floor, but the girl and the shelf right themselves, and she squats there on top of it, looking very pleased with herself, feathered ear tufts sticking straight out. Her father facepalms and Will does his best not to laugh.

"Miranda, you may stay there if you like, but please stay still," Will tells the girl, and she chirps, cocking her head to study him with one big, golden eye. He smiles at her, and then goes back to his seat, settling in and opening her file. 

There have been no apparent changes to Miranda's cognition over the past year. She remains parrot-clever, but incapable of many tasks of daily living. At least her KSL is getting better, which has smoothed things out at home, and she's in excellent physical health. Her daily enrichment program with other animalistic kemonomimi children is going well, and there are even some other bird types there. The Connor family actually looks it, but most bird kemonomimi have African Grey Parrot as the major avian component, whatever their phenotype, so it's not surprising that Miranda is good friends with a little boy whose feathers are cardinal red, and with a girl her own age who looks like a wren.

After talking to her parents, Will gets up to interview Miranda herself. She looks healthy and happy, and cheerfully signs _good_ again and again, because she is a good girl and life is good. Will can't help laughing, but Miranda just joins in. She really is a nice girl, and is happy to accept Will's help down from the bookcase, landing lightly on the balls of her Converse-clad feet.

Will tells the Connor family the truth, that Miranda's benefits are in no danger, and sends them off with some dried mango for Miranda, who makes happy chirping noises as she chews on it. Will smiles and shuts the window, taking advantage of the brief window before his next appointment to step out to the bathroom, splash some water on his face, and check his phone again.

_Darling, Queen Mother and her oldest daughter are here, I hope you don't mind._

Will sends back that he doesn't mind at all, and is actually pleased when Hannibal replies that they'll probably still be there when Will gets home. He lets Hannibal know that he's a long way from minding, and heads back to the office just in time to be there when Rachelle and her mother come in, what must be the father of the baby slinking in after them. He looks very nervous, shoulders hunched and ears flattened out to the side, but he's still a good-looking catboy, lean and wiry in a way that reminds Will of Hannibal. His tail is slightly puffy, but he sticks close to Rachelle, and calms a little when she takes his hand.

"This is Treesong," she says, a little defiantly, head held high.

"Hi, Treesong," Will says, and gives the kid a long, slow blink before getting up and getting a third chair. "Sit down," he adds, to everyone, and they do. 

Rachelle's mother looks tight-lipped and tense, but there are far worse reactions to a situation like this. Will starts with her, working out the nuts and bolts of prenatal appointments while the kids hold hands and look nervous and very much in love. Rachelle may be young and small, but she's in good health and hopefully the baby will be too, with the right supplementation and help. Treesong listens very closely to everything about Rachelle's health, and when Will turns to interview him, his tail puffs up but he does not flee. It's obviously a wrench for him to let go of Rachelle's hand to use his feralsign and basic KSL to say that he loves Rachelle and wants to help.


	14. A Nice Comfortable Visit

Queen Mother's battered little car is parked in the driveway when Will comes home in the afternoon, and he smiles at the sight of it. Mischa and the dogs are sunning themselves on the porch, and the pack leaps up to greet him while Mischa lounges and waits with feline dignity for him to come to her. When he does, she gets up and rubs her cheek along his shoulder, and Will smiles.

"Good to see you, too." Mischa chirps, and follows him inside with the dogs and straight into a hug from Francis. Will laughs and returns it. "Hey, Francis. Had a good day?"

Francis nods, and leads Will to the kitchen where Hannibal is making dainty little sandwiches while Queen Mother and a teenage girl sit and sip tea. Francis takes a seat between them, looking delighted to be alive. Mischa prowls past the group without a word to stretch out on the couch, but every line of her body says that these representatives of the Bailey clan are fine with her.

Before Will can say anything about children, Queen Mother says, "This is Testament, my oldest, and she's eighteen and can visit if she likes."

"Can't argue with that," Will says. "Pleased to meet you, Testament."

"You can call me Tess," the girl says, and extends a graceful hand for Will to shake. She's a living model of Queen Mother's sylphlike past, a very beautiful girl with serious eyes. "Mom tells us about Francis," she says, letting go, "but the little ones wanted me to go and double check." She smiles. "Make sure you're feeding him all right and everything."

Will chuckles. "We do our best," he says, and pulls up a chair, looking up as Hannibal approaches with a cup of tea. He takes it with both hands and Hannibal purrs, leaning down to kiss his cheek before going back to the sandwich platter. Will tries not to blush, and Queen Mother just smiles.

The visit is a pleasant one, Queen Mother and Tess lingering over their sandwiches and giving Will and Hannibal myriad little details that will make Francis's stay more pleasant. Will and Francis walk them out when they leave, and watch their little sedan pulling away into the gathering dusk. Francis can't help a single, miserable whine, and Will puts his arm around him.

"It's okay, Francis," he says softly. "You have us."

Francis wags his tail and smiles, just a little. Will leads him inside, where Hannibal greets both of them with a happy purr and a hug. If Francis wasn't here he would be shedding his clothes, but they've agreed that such behavior would probably alarm Francis and would be considered unprofessional even for an extremely instinctual kemonomimi with a long history of living as a semi-feral. 

Much later, when Francis is tucked into bed upstairs with a belly full of warm milk and with Winston for company, Hannibal makes a quiet report of the day. Being a cat, he does this while he and Will are curled up in bed, forming a warm and drowsy pile, purr underscoring his words. Hannibal is very pleased to have retained his purr after his speech surgery, and uses it whenever he can. In the course of making cookies, talking with Francis about a more flattering haircut, and teaching him how to knot a necktie, Hannibal has found out a few things. Like many dogpeople, Francis prefers to have a soft toy for personal comfort and general snuggling, a desire evinced by how soothed he is by the stuffed monkey on loan from Hannibal. Will is coldly enraged but not surprised to hear that Mrs. Dolarhyde burned Francis's stuffed chicken because he was "too old" for it, and that Francis is understandably afraid to ask for any sort of replacement.

"He could only barely mention to me under the influence of cuddles and fresh cookies," Hannibal murmurs, pressing even closer. "Do you think it would be better to let him choose one at a store," he asks, "or to make him something?"

"The Division would prefer purchase," Will tells him, stroking his hair, "but a real gift from the goodness of your heart might be better for him."

"And I don't _think_ there's any cause to block visitation with us at any point, no matter where his permanent home ends up being," Hannibal adds, tail twitching in thought even as he presses himself up into Will's touch and purrs like a happy engine.

Will rubs the pads of his fingers along the seam between Hannibal's scalp and his silky ears, making him shiver pleasantly. "There isn't. Even if he got violent, we could visit him in jail. Unless he refused to see us, but dogs don't usually do that."

"Such sociable creatures," Hannibal says, in tones of wonder and gentle contempt that make Will laugh, and hug him tightly enough to make him squirm and make an irritable kitty noise.

"Grimalkin," Will coos, easing his grip and ruffling Hannibal's hair with one hand, and Hannibal grins at him, dainty fangs gleaming in the moonlight that spills through the window.

"You haven't called me that in a while," he says.

"I know. I've been feeling weird about it, but that's not fair to my precious little Hannikitty, is it?"

Hannibal chirps, and rolls them slightly so that he can lie on Will like a gigantic muscular blanket, his pupils pooling open. Will shivers and pulls him down for a kiss. "Slinkcat," he mumbles against Hannibal's lips, "demonthing."

Hannibal chuckles, and gently bites at Will's neck with those sharp, sharp teeth that always send a thrill of atavistic fear through him along with the lust. Will gets hard so fast it leaves him a little dizzy, and all of his own scruples about having a client under his roof go hazy. To hell with it, they'll just be quiet. He grinds up along Hannibal's thigh, shuddering and clutching at his back. Hannibal murmurs endearments and encouragement, biting Will on his shoulders and low on his neck where his work wardrobe will hide it. In an embarrassingly short time he's biting onto Hannibal's shoulder with his own blunt human teeth, coming in a swift, sharp way that leaves him utterly useless under Hannibal. He doesn't seem to mind, though, rutting to completion against Will's belly, growling low in his throat. Afterward, Hannibal slides down to lick Will clean, and all he can do is lie there and try not to moan, one hand loosely gripping Hannibal's hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's starting to look like we'll meet Reba in the next installment after this one. I have one idea how it could happen, but I'm not married to it. If anything should occur to you, Gentle Reader, feel free to tell me about it.


	15. Domestic Bliss

Will is barely conscious when he gets a phone call. His first thought is that it's Queen Mother again, but it's actually Jack. Will's stomach knots up at the realization, because this probably means that Jack has found some lovely official foster home for Francis. He's a little surprised at how much the idea depresses him.

"Morning, Jack," Will says, and Jack sighs, sounding tired and harried.

"Morning. How are you doing with Dolarhyde?"

"Pretty well, all things considered," Will says, letting the dogs out to pee before he starts dishing up their food.

"Well enough to hang onto him until the hearing? An old man died upstate, and he was practically running a supported residence on his own. Just about every foster home is booked up with kemonomimi who wish they were still at home with Grandpa."

"That's too bad. No next of kin who can keep it up?"

"Not so far. So do you mind?"

"Not a bit, we're getting real fond of him."

They talk a bit longer about the current shortage of foster homes, and then Will hangs up as the door opens, Hannibal letting the dogs in ahead of himself. He's wearing pajama bottoms, a light coating of dirt and grass strains, and a broad smile. Will can't help but smile back, and Hannibal trills, coming over to hug him and to rub his scent all over Will's neck and shoulder.

"Good morning, kitty-cat," Will murmurs into one grey ear, and Hannibal purrs, tail lazily waving. 

He hangs onto Will until Francis comes downstairs, when he steps back and chirps a friendly greeting. Francis wags his tail, and then pauses to re-roll one shirt cuff with a prissy attention to detail that Will loves. "Morning, Francis," Will says. "Looks like you're staying with us at least until your hearing."

Francis looks nervous and happy at the same time, ears flat and tail wagging. Will smiles at him. "We're glad to have you."

Today Francis is going to accompany Will to work for more assessments, but Hannibal makes them both promise to carve out some time for clothes shopping. Not only does Francis only have three real sets of clothes, but none of them are really big enough, all apparently fitted before Francis had finished filling out to his current massive size. He still hasn't said anything about his collar, currently reposing on the top shelf of Will's closet. It's probably a good sign, but Will is watching him.

In the car Francis scans the radio for hard rock, and Will smiles, pulling out of the driveway. "What do you and Hannibal listen to when you stay home?"

 _We take turns,_ Francis signs, and Will grins.

"An aria, 'War Pigs' and another aria?"

Francis nods, and Will is pleased to see him quite relaxed during the drive. He tenses up a little when they arrive, but wags his tail when he sees staff he recognizes, and signs a cheerful greeting to Starling when they pass by her in the hall. They're working their way up to the practical assessments and all the instinctual things, and it's really too bad that that means less time with Starling. She just waves and goes on, carrying files to someone, somewhere.

At least Francis doesn't need to do the instinctual stress-testing today, starting with the easy tests, like the one with the baby doll. Will leaves him to it, and does his best to concentrate on his other clients and not fret. Today he's mostly engaged with a backlog of pet applications, and while paperwork is less immediate, it draws Will in. He interrogates nothing quite so much as people's motives in wanting a kemonomimi pet. The service kemonomimi applications always go by faster, because that's obvious. The ability to smell a dangerous blood sugar or oncoming seizure, and opposable thumbs to open drawers and dial 911. 

Service kemonomimi save lives every day, but the simple pet applications demand every bit of scrutiny that he can give them. Not that some don't straddle the line, like this one from a pair of autistic parents who have a lot of difficulty remembering that children need hugs and have noticed their baby drooping from the lack of physical contact. It's a touching little picture of a family that really could use the uncomplicated but still human affections of a pet kemonomimi, and Will digs through the pet folder for the perfect profile, a dogwoman who has had multiple false pregnancies and would like to move from her supported residence to somewhere with babies to love. Getting the scheduling department to arrange that meeting feels like a job well done, and after that it's time for that home visit to the Lindgrens. 

Fond as Will is of the Lindgren home, this is pretty much a paid break. He gets to drive out to where things are green and quiet, and then follow the narrow, winding driveway up to their house. It used to be a barn, and is the kind of weathered, intentionally rustic thing that's usually annoying. Something saves this one for Will. It's either the patches of moss on the old wood, or the dozens of cats on the premises at all times. 

Mallory offers him a cup of tea as soon as he arrives, and compliments him on his tie with her usual sharp eye for men's fashion. It's the one Hannibal picked, of course, and Will tells her so before Freckles comes dashing out of the back room where he was almost certainly napping to demand hugs. Will is happy to supply them while the tea steeps, and he tells Mallory and Sam everything he can about Francis without breaking confidentiality laws. After tea, Will is a professional and does a proper inspection of the house. In between petting the more outgoing cats and playing a little bit of low-impact fetch with Freckles, of course.

As always, the Ms. Lindgrens pass their home inspection with flying colors. They passed the first one, back when Freckles was just the poor old stray they had found while out feeding feral cats. By now, Freckles has a nice collection of stuffed toys, jackets for cold and rainy days, and three nice clean beds. One is in Sam's office so he can nap at her feet during the day, one is in the master bedroom, and one is in the downstairs guest room where the more gregarious cats hang out, for when he's sexiled. Will ponders this arrangement, wondering if there's any way that he can work out a similar program with Francis.


	16. Let Thy Attire Be Comely, But Not Costly

Collecting Francis at the end of the day is one of the best parts of it. He has done very well on his assessments, and is signing with a rabbitwoman who is waiting for her caseworker. Will vaguely remembers the rabbit as a survivor of one of those shady 'pet academies' where some families stash their kemonomimi children. Like Francis, she has had to put up with a lot of shit just because she can't talk, and Will is pleased to see her looking better. After he checks in with her and wishes her well, he leads Francis out and watches him sign all about his day. Will is not surprised at all to hear that Francis tests with very good control of his prey drive. It's higher than Will expected, but Francis proudly tells him about petting the hamster and not eating it, and Will grins.

"They're too fluffy, anyway. All that fur would stick in your teeth."

Francis has to concede that it would, and after a momentary silence he asks when they can go look for clothes. Will doesn't have to come in until noon, and Francis would rather do this sooner than later, so at a stoplight Will calls Hannibal to let him know that they'll be going out bright and early to shop for Francis. Hannibal is of course delighted with this itinerary, and greets them at the door with a happy trill and a tape measure. After hugging them both and giving Will the kind of long kiss that makes him feel embarrassed and happy in front of Francis, Hannibal makes Francis join him over by the fireplace and starts to take his measurements. Francis looks more than a little confused at this, but Will just smiles at him.

"Even if we can't get anything tailored, it's probably a good idea to know your exact size," he says, and Francis smiles, relaxing a little.

Soon Hannibal has all the measurements, and neatly makes a note of them before going to the kitchen to check on what smells like more fish soup. It has become a staple since Hannibal has joined the household, and it's one of many pleasant changes. Francis can't help looking a little anxious from time to time, but considering everything he has been through lately, Will just makes sure that he hast plenty to eat and that he knows they'll keep him safe and warm.

Mischa had been napping earlier, but she comes prowling in in the middle of dinner, and Hannibal fusses over her and serves her a huge bowl of soup as she yawns,. Once she's more awake and about half of her food is gone, she starts to talk, still working on that feline accent. Francis gets a bit more tense at this, and they're all very careful to stay very calm and to correct Mischa as gently as possible when she makes a mistake.

"Darling sister," Hannibal croons at last, "do you want to come with us tomorrow and get some clothes?"

She narrows her eyes in thought. She's much more behaviorally feral than her brother, but she loves pretty colors, and Will isn't very surprised when she agrees to go, on the condition that she get a red dress. "Orrrr blue," she adds.

"Or blue," Hannibal agrees. "The right shade of yellow would bring out your eyes, too."

"Meeiibee," she concedes, and goes back to inhaling her soup.

Everyone makes an early night of it, and Mischa sleeps in a pile with the dogs on Francis's floor so that no one will have to come to the barn to get her. Will is glad to see that she doesn't mind joining them overnight, because while the barn is fairly warm and weatherproof, he's not sure how it will be against winter or even a hard enough summer storm. With Hannibal cuddled up to his side and purring, Will slides easily into the kind of bright, fragmented dreams that are more soothing than chaotic.

Hannibal is full of energy, and after giving Will a loving pat to the face and a proper kiss, leaps out of bed and scampers away to bathe and dress. Will dozes off for a while, and wakes up again to Hannibal's cheerful, birdlike noises of joy at a beautiful morning, and a proffered cup of coffee. He takes it, mumbling his thanks as Hannibal kisses his forehead and sails away again to finish cooking breakfast. The pipes rattle with Francis's shower, and by the time Will is upright and wearing pants, their guest comes to join them, sleek, moist, and nervously happy. Will hugs him and gently scratches him behind the ears.

"Morning, Francis. We need to go soon, but you have time to eat."

Francis makes very good use of his time, and by half-past nine everyone can pile into Will's car, leaving the dogs to hold down the fort. They might have to go straight to the office afterward, so the pack will have to content itself with kongs with cheese in them and all the other usual diversions. It's a warm day, so Will puts out plenty of water and opens a few windows.

Naturally, Francis has no real idea which stores would carry items to his taste, but Hannibal is full of suggestions. The kemonomimi population is growing rapidly enough that even small towns have options, and in a place like this, Will knows he's in it for the long haul. Hannibal leads Francis into their first stop as if he owns the place, and Will can only sigh and follow them. Mischa prowls after Will, examining everything around her. She'll probably never be the housecat her brother is, but she seems to be enjoying the racks of crisp and colorful garments.

After a lifetime of wearing secretly-altered human clothes and at least five years of those clothes being too small, Francis is almost stunned at the array of choices. It's a good kind of stunned, though, and Will actually feels a little bit like crying when he sees Francis in shirts that actually fit him, not binding at the shoulders or cutting him across the throat. His tail is thin enough that Mrs. Dolarhyde's tiny holes were just wide enough, but he's still more comfortable in proper kemonomimi pants. Will can see it in the more comfortable way he wags now, and he thinks with a pang of the moment when he'll have to consign Francis to a proper foster home.


	17. Back To Work

After Hannibal has carefully selected some shirts that make the most of Francis's coloration, and has voiced his opinion upon dungarees and other work trousers, it is time to find something to wear to the hearing. Francis can't help but be nervous about it, despite Will's assurances that it's a status hearing and that he's not in trouble. He might be if the forensics come back funny, but Will has a feeling they won't.

Even with Francis's nerves, he is enchanted with the process of selecting his first suit. Hannibal fusses over a good fit, of course, but with Francis's figure, nothing off the rack will be right, and Will reminds him again and again that they can just pin it later. Still, Hannibal insists on trying several different cuts, and Francis shows no sign of tiring. Will sits in the chair provided for people who endure rather than enjoy shopping, and waits for Hannibal to find the exact tie to bring out the deep gold of Francis's eyes. Mischa vanishes on her own, prowling through the racks until she emerges with a bright red dress and a blue window pane check pantsuit. She makes an eloquent noise of exasperation when she sees Will still waiting, and he chuckles.

"I think it really won't be much longer this time. Unlike the other four times."

"Sso yu ssay," she says, and crouches beside the chair. 

Will can't help a little flash of human male guilt, but they've had this discussion and Mischa likes to rest on the balls of her feet beside Will's chair. She says that armchairs are for sleeping, so there's no point in using them in places where one is supposed to stay awake. Now she tells Will about making each of her choices, and holds each one up for his approval. 

The colors are lovely, and Will is sure that Mischa will wear each piece very well. When Hannibal finally emerges like the leader of a successful hunting party, he agrees, and Francis wags his tail and signs 'pretty' with his free hand, the other holding his carefully-bagged suit. Free to check out at last, they of course run into the same catwoman who gave Hannibal her number. She cocks her head and narrows her eyes at him, and he just shrugs and takes Will's hand. Will is almost expecting a true catfight to break out between her and Mischa for a moment, but then everyone's ears relax and the catwoman laughs.

"I'm pleased to lose out to someone so pretty," she says, and rings them up with a smile that's probably genuine. Hannibal apologizes for not calling, citing his need to get out to the Feral Nation, and she forgives him, letting all of them walk back out into the parking lot without any loss of blood or even hair.

Despite Hannibal's painstaking examination of what felt like every bit of relevant inventory, they do have time to go back to the house. Will will have to turn around almost immediately, but being able to leave company for the dogs is more than enough motivation. They are of course delighted to see him, leaping and wagging as if he had left them for a month. While he's petting them and double-checking their water supply, Hannibal arranges a quick fashion show, determined to show Will how nice their various acquisitions really are.

Francis goes first, shyly displaying his new clothes to very good advantage. They're an excellent use of the kemonomimi fund, and Hannibal was right about butter yellow bringing out Francis's eyes and playing up the attractive contrast between his golden ears and his dark hair. He really does have an incredible body, and he is definitely going to need Hannibal to pin a few things up for him, nipping his shirts in at the waist. Francis's suit will need the same sort of attention, but it's a very nice pattern and makes him look very respectable. Will wonders what effect that will have on the outcome of the hearing, but it's standard practice to dress anyone who can comprehend it to human standards.

Will is glad to stop thinking about it in favor of admiring Mischa, coaxed into modeling her own new clothes by her doting brother. Her pale skin and hair make her look ethereal with the blood-red of her dress, and the short skirt makes the most of her fantastic legs. It also brings out the red tones in her eyes and the hole for her tail is at just the right height, which can be a real problem with kemonomimi clothes, so all in all, it's a fantastic buy. Mischa purrs when Will says so, and then goes to change into the suit, which makes her look like even more of a Hitchcock blonde, icy and controlled and beautiful. All of them are very appreciative, and Will is equally chagrined and delighted to find that Francis and Hannibal can talk fashion, their hands flying in signs Will doesn't know because he doesn't have much cause to mention selvage and natural fibers in the course of his work. Mischa just rolls her eyes, carefully hangs her clothes in Hannibal's closet, and goes prowling out to the barn, pausing to kiss Will's cheek in farewell.

Hannibal chuckles, watching her go, and then comes to Will to lovingly rub scent onto his shoulders and to kiss him like no one is watching. To be fair, no one is, Francis upstairs to put his things away, but Will blushes again. Hannibal chuckles, and kisses him again.

"Precious monkeything," he croons, and Will laughs.

"Grimalkin," he coos in return, and then steps away, calling up the stairs to Francis that they need to go.

That done, he kisses Hannibal again and then steps out onto the porch to wait for Francis, who takes only a moment more. They're probably going to be late even on his current hours, but the Division can soak it. Beverly has even had a cancellation today, so it's fine that Francis's assessments will go at least five minutes into the next block. Francis wags his tail to hear that they haven't made any trouble, and goes off with Beverly with a touching lack of fear.

Whatever the Division can handle, the clients can't always, so Will is very glad to get to his office to find that there have been no major catastrophes while he was out. His current cases are all doing pretty well, and he's delighted to find that that pet application has been expedited since it's closer to a service kemonomimi situation. They haven't met yet, but should be able to sometime next week. Will will try to be there, the way he always does when a prospective placement was his idea.


	18. Home Safe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit I updated a thing!

Francis burns right through his assessments, determined to do well. With no one sabotaging him, he's able to display his intelligence and essential humanity. Of course everyone has human rights, but Francis is rapidly proving himself capable of understanding pants, taxes, and all the rest of those human responsibilities. He tests as nervous and avoidant of and submissive to women, but that's only to be expected, and he can deal with a female police officer asking to see his shiny new identification card even if he does cringe a lot. Will is just glad that he's managing not to pee, and gives him some jerky afterward. Most dogs would take beer, but Francis doesn't like it, and jerky can be about as calming, for a dogperson. Many of them have said that its chewiness and resistance is soothing, and Will can understand that.

The whole thing reminds Will of Alana's expedited application, and he puts a reminder into his phone to call her. Even if he's busy, it doesn't do to neglect an expecting couple. At least Hannibal has been keeping up through Facebook, and has been able to report that they seem to be doing well as Margot grows ever larger. While he has his phone out, Will takes a moment to check for himself, feeling a stupid smile spreading across his face to see how sleek and contented they both look. He only spends a moment on that, and then sighs and gets back to the massive pile in front of him. He's up to his elbows in paperwork with all the time he has had to give to Francis's case, and now has to take some of that time back. 

Will can't help feeling bad about not being able to pick Francis up right after the day’s tiring assessments. When he finally can, he almost runs to the quiet room where Francis is resting, and has to laugh at himself to find Francis perfectly calm and reading one of the many books Hannibal has lent him, something about the history of tattooing. He looks up at Will and the tip of his tail wags where it's draped over his lap.

Will smiles. "Hey, buddy. Feeling all right?" Francis nods, closing his book and standing up, proudly handing Will the printout of his excellent scores. Will grins and claps him on the back. "Good job!" Francis beams, and follows Will out of the building. Will sends up the closest thing that he can ever manage to a prayer that the hearing will go well.

At home, Hannibal has made a rich, braised beef dish that Francis says is the best thing he has ever eaten in his life. Hannibal purrs and serves him four helpings, and everything is so tranquil that Will isn't very surprised when Francis has another howling nightmare, waking everyone up at three am. After the first jolt it's all inevitable, and Will sighs, going upstairs with Hannibal to pet and gentle poor Francis. He's shaking, and they hug him for a long time, Winston coming to help with his calm weight and warmth. Finding a good therapist is already on the list along with a medical consultation about Francis's speech problems, but for now all he can do is ease Francis down to sleep again. At least this time they don't have to change the sheets. In their own bed again, Hannibal's tail lashes with his rage at Mrs. Dolarhyde, and he hisses that he's glad she's dead, that she should have suffered more.

Will just chuckles, kissing his forehead. "At least cats are allowed to say that kind of thing."

"My poor precious monkey," Hannibal croons, and Will snorts and flicks one of Hannibal's ears, which only makes him purr.

Time seems to speed up on the day scale and slow down on the minutes, giving Will's whole universe a sickening, jerky feel as Francis's hearing comes leaping up out of the future. At least he has a nice suit for it, and Hannibal helps him into it like armor, his tail swishing and his ears a little flattened and tipped to the sides. Will didn't sleep well the night before, and Francis looks slightly green, his tail tucked so hard that it probably hurts a little.

Francis at least doesn't have to wear restraints, and Will and Hannibal can hold his hands during testimony. Queen Mother is also there, and just knowing that is a help to Francis. He looks to her again and again, soothed by her gaze and her presence. He's mostly calm, but does start to cry quietly when his grandmother's fatal injury is detailed, and cringes when the topic shifts to his own wounds. Hannibal purrs quietly, the sound soothing and steady until the worst of it is over.

In the end, the judge doesn't deliberate long at all. They just have time for a round of water and for Francis to eat some cheese and crackers, never too stressed to be hungry, and then she's back. Francis is in no trouble, since the whole thing was clearly an accident, and since his official status fails to accurately reflect his abilities, he must remain in a licensed foster home until his real status can be ascertained. Francis whines in terror at the thought of being placed with strangers, but the judge continues to say that Will's home is technically a licensed one, and that Francis can remain where he is until he has found his true status.

The relief is enough to make all of them feel drunk, and when Hannibal calls Mischa to let her know the ruling, she lets out such a loud and joyful trill that Will can hear it. Francis wags just the tip of his tail, still not fully able to believe that it's going to be all right. Queen Mother comes over to hug Francis tightly, and he loosens up a little, wagging for real, his ears more relaxed. She croons soothingly to him and rubs his back, keeping one arm around him when she makes some calls of her own, to her husband and to Testament, to let them know that Francis is safe. He leans into her touch, and smiles one of those big, unabashed dogpeople smiles that always give Will such joy to see.


	19. The Great Red Dragon

With the restrictions on Francis lifted, his case becomes an internship for Hannibal. Fraternization regs allow it because Will rarely needs to talk to the pet counselors professionally, and can just avoid technically working with Hannibal. Even as Francis lives with them. It's more than a little technically shady, but Jack is so fucking tired of this whole thing and Francis is doing so well that everyone just lets it slide. Will has more than enough to deal with in getting Francis his surgical consult and in dealing with the sudden invasion of children. 

Now that all the little Baileys are legally allowed to be around their beloved Possum, there are often three or more of them underfoot when Will comes home. At least they're good kids, and are only normal-exhausting. They say please and thank you, don't yell too much, and the only thing they break is a coffee cup that really was too close to the edge of the table and ugly anyway. It would be worth a lot worse for the way Francis lights up around them. Dogpeople pretty much never outgrow their urge to run and play, and Will's dogs are in absolute paradise as Francis and the children play tag and roll on the grass in a happy pile.

Still, the Baileys have to go home at night, and Hannibal reminds Will of the importance of getting Francis some kind of stuffed friend. This is the kind of shopping trip Will can enjoy, especially because now Francis has a little money of his own. His grandmother may have been ashamed of him and brutal to him, but she did leave him her money. There isn't much of it, but there's certainly enough for Francis to get a small present for each of the Baileys. Of course Hannibal is delighted to help him shop, and even Will finds a nice scarf for Queen Mother. Still, Hannibal has to drag Francis to his real mission at last. 

Francis is very embarrassed to be purchasing a stuffed toy for himself, even though there's nothing weird at all about a grown dogman doing such a thing, but Hannibal really wants his monkey back. When he gently says so, Francis blushes pinker than he was already, but starts seriously considering his available options. By now Will just wants to flee, but he makes sure not to rush Francis. The poor guy has barely ever been able to choose anything for himself, and he deserves time to make up his mind.

At last Hannibal pulls out the bargain bin, showing the kind of psychological insight that will be a massive help in his planned career. These priced-down, unwanted toys are less intimidating than the ones ranked with all their clones on the shelf, and Francis digs down to the bottom to find something enormous and red. He hugs it tightly, and Will knows that they can finally leave.

In lieu of a name, Francis's new friend goes by a title: The Great Red Dragon, Red for every day. Red is the size of a small child and very soft, with enormous yellow glass eyes that look guilelessly out at the world. She mostly stays upstairs in Francis's room, but sometimes he brings her down so the children can play with her, or just to curl up with on the couch. 

Red also accompanies Francis on his first visit to Sutcliffe's office. He holds her tightly against his chest in the waiting room, tail tucked and ears back, self-consciousness completely forgotten in nerves. There's plenty of reading material as well as some toys and games for any children trapped here, but Francis just stares at the wall and clings to Red. He jumps a little when Will touches him, but then relaxes and leans into the arm around his shoulder.

"It's okay,' Will croons, and soothes Francis as best he can until it's time to go into the office. Sutcliffe gives him a nice, slow blink, asks after Hannibal and Mischa, and lets Francis keep holding Red as he examines his mouth and his larynx.

"Well," he says, peering at the back of Francis's throat with a light, "this won't be easy, but it could be a lot worse."

Francis staggers out later, more than a little dazed. He's going to need multiple surgeries, but should tolerate them well and eventually have real results. Will is of course going to let him think about it, and takes him home to sign all about it to Hannibal and Mischa, and be lovingly patted and fed steak while Red sits under his chair, close but out of the way. 

Will takes his own share of steak and loving pats, letting the others carry the conversation. He goes to bed early afterward, more than a little exhausted from everything. He comes half-awake in the small hours as Hannibal climbs in beside him, his skin cool from running around with the dogs. Will mutters something that isn't a word and wraps himself around that wild-scented body, sighing into Hannibal's hair as he goes back under. At least it's Friday.

When Will wakes up to voices that don't live in his house, he has a moment of despair before realizing that it's Margot and Alana, and that he actually does want to see them. There's a neat pile of folded clothes next to the bed, and Will drags them under the covers so that he can emerge fully dressed. He joins everyone in the kitchen, and Hannibal trills sweetly, handing him a cup of coffee with a kiss on the cheek.

Despite being the technical father here, Alana has the sleek and sweetly smug look of most pregnant rabbitwomen Will has ever seen. Margot is huge by now, and glowing with health. She looks proud and sort of sweetly fretful, and Will is glad that she's here, letting Hannibal feed her a good breakfast and signing with Francis and Mischa.


End file.
